


slate penitentiary

by decypress



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 23:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20590826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decypress/pseuds/decypress
Summary: An excerpt from Annabeth's time working as a trainee paladin





	slate penitentiary

**Author's Note:**

> Not finished yet, gonna add a second part

The personality of a building inevitably forms from that of the people who inhabit it. A cosy wooden lodge, with soft fur carpets and a fire crackling in the grate, must be the home of someone equally friendly and reassuring. A ramshackle cottage with half-drawn curtains and a tangled lawn most likely houses a person just as unkempt. And, of course, a mound of sticks in a river can only belong to a beaver.

The Slate Penitentiary was an altogether unpleasant building. It slumped sullenly against the icy upper slopes of Mount Greenlovely - named by a explorer who thought they were being funny – and scowled contemptuously at the wagon making its way up through the ridge below. If buildings could talk, the Slate Penitentiary probably still wouldn’t.

The wagon rattled and jolted its way up the ill-maintained path to the front gate. The wind sliced in through the windows and gaps in the wood, fluttering Annabeth’s skirt around her ankles. She sat leaning forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, her sword and glaive clanking where they leant against the wall beside her. The only other occupant of the wagon was the driver, sat out front fumbling with the reins through his thick winter gloves.

She reached into one of her pockets and withdrew a folded scrap of paper. She unfolded it. Then unfolded it again. Then unfolded it again. Then she continued unfolding until it was fully open. In this state, the sheet was as wide as her palm, but almost as long as her sword, and had a pleasing accordion-like effect when she moved the top and bottom. She looked over the contents once more, scarcely believing the extent of what she was reading, and shook her head silently.

The wagon clattered to a stop. From outside, Annabeth heard the whinny of the one poor horse that had to pull them all the way up the ridge. She refolded the paper, placed it back into her pocket, and stood up. After re-clipping her sword to her belt, she picked up her glaive and exited the wagon, her feet meeting the snow with a soft crunch. She thanked the driver, gave the exhausted horse a lump of biscuit from her pocket, and made her way up the front steps of the Slate building.

The snow whipped past her as she reached the top of the stairs. Stretching off in either direction, the prison’s walls stood, constructed of uneven granite bricks and wizened wooden support beams, and airbrushed white by the omnipresent shroud of snow. The ancient oak doors, bound in nails more rust than metal by now, stood imposingly afore her. Above the left door handle, a knocker hung, its mount carved into the shape of a snarling wolf. Above the right door handle was a wooden plaque, its words mostly obscured by a buildup of snow. Annabeth wiped it clean.

_Salespeople WILL be thrown in the oubliette!!_

She stared. Then she reached up, grabbed the ring in the brass wolf’s mouth, and rapped it against the door, firmly, three times.

The wind whistled through some crevice of the building as Annabeth waited, leaning on her glaive. Behind her, the wagon began to slowly trundle alongside the building to the stables. A snowflake fluttered into her eye, making her flinch. She blinked her eye clear, scowled at the clouds, and pulled her hood further down her face.

Finally, the sound of a latch being withdrawn clunked from behind the door. It was followed by a second clunk, and then the ka-chunk of a hefty iron key turning in a padlock. The left-hand door ground open by a couple of degrees, and a sunken-eyed guard peered out at Annabeth through the crack. He looked her up and down.

“Evangelists count as salespeople,” he grumbled.

“I’ve been sent for,” Annabeth said. “To act as chaplain.”

The guard’s face disappeared from the door opening. “Hey!” he called, “We’ve got some woman in holy clothes out here saying she was called for?”

Annabeth waited politely.

“As chaplain, yeah,” came the guard’s voice.

She shifted her grip on the glaive and sighed through her nose.

The guard reappeared in the doorway. “Alright, you can come in,” he grumbled, grabbing the doorhandle. The door didn’t move. He braced his shoulder against it and shoved, and the door juddered open wide enough to just barely admit the paladin. A confetti cloud of rust particles emerged from the hinges.

“Thank you, sir,” Annabeth said, nodding as she carefully slipped through the door.

“Whatever,” replied the guard.

The entrance hall was much warmer than outside, although that was probably just down to the lack of wind chill. Annabeth pulled down her hood, scattering snow down her back, and looked around. The room was narrow, but high, with mostly-parallel beams supporting the roof. Light was provided by a misshapen iron brazier bolted into the left-hand wall. There were two corridors leading away to the left and right. The guard was returning to a seat on the other side of the room next to a rickety table, upon which a book was waiting for him, open and face-down.

“Close that,” he said as he sat down, jabbing his thumb at the door. “Don’t let the cold in.”

Annabeth grabbed the door handle and, with somewhat less effort than the guard, dragged the door shut. She then thoughtfully drew the latches across, and re-locked the padlock.

“Where does this key go?” she asked, pulling it from the lock.

“In the lock.”

“Sorry. I meant, where do you keep it?”

“In the lock.”

Annabeth narrowed her eyes at the guard, and slotted the key back into the lock with a scrape of rust.

“So who are you here to see?” the guard said, from behind his book.

Annabeth walked over and handed him the lengthy sheet of paper from her pocket. The guard took a cursory glance up from his book, just long enough to read the name at the top. He pointed to the left-hand corridor.

“Head down that way, take the right. Sixth cell on your left.” Then he returned to his book.

“Aren’t I supposed to be accompanied?”

The guard shrugged. “Probably.” He didn’t get up.

Annabeth followed his directions. The corridors were cold and damp, and most of the cells were empty. Take the right, sixth cell on the left.

It was empty.

Luckily, the person she was looking for was one cell over. The guard must have mis-counted. She peeked between the bars at the stocky figure on the bed, and said, “Hello?”

The dwarf looked up. “Ach, good mornin’, priestie.”


End file.
